


Tides of Midnight

by featheredschist



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: Angels, Angst, Child Abduction, Child Injury, HEALED child, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Multi, Romance, Soul Bond, Torture, Wings, all child stuff takes place over 2 chapters, can be skipped, child endangerment, definitely posted warnings, incredible author liberties, like healing, supernatural powers, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featheredschist/pseuds/featheredschist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark and Bruce Banner have a mysterious connection. Will it save them from lives lived in darkness or doom them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Do not own, just playing around  
> Warnings: violence, tripping through canon (tiptoe, through the tulips), other tags to be added, but no other warnings for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in chapter 4, this is a redo, mostly of geography I've screwed up. Nothing else major has changed, maybe some spelling, or grammar.

Running from the military was hard on him. There was no rest, no recovery. Just, change after change, transformation after transformation, sapping away at his strength.

He hasn't been able to stop running long enough to eat, and had discovered that his new "friend" required easily twice as much food as he'd been used to. Unfortunately, a lack of money, plus minimal access to civilization meant he'd had to learn, quickly, how to live off the land. He was grateful that his new state of being meant he was less prone to catching diseases and getting sick. The feathers had thrown him for a loop. After each transformation, he always found green, gray, or black feathers on the ground. He had no idea what it meant, but tried to keep a few after each change, to hopefully run some experiments on later.

He felt drawn to California. The creature made significant headway, moving across the mountains. Military scouts forced him into Mexico, leaping the border in an unoccupied part of Arizona. Once there, he traveled south into the jungle, trying to get distance before he was too weak to keep going.

He was profoundly grateful for the ability to absorb new languages. Less than a week, and he spoke like a native no matter where he ended up. It enabled him to move around without attracting too much attention. Having a deep bronze tan and dark, curly brown hair aided Bruce in being invisible as he evaded capture.

Living in a shanty town, he was able to disappear adequately enough to lose his pursuers. He found work in a factory, repairing machinery, and lost himself to the endless drudgery.

 

Back in California, another, more well off man was attempting to recover from a severe illness that none of the best doctors and naturopaths could determine source or cause of. It was a good 6 months before the symptoms lessened enough to allow him to get out of bed longer than a couple hours at a time.

He took one trip, south into Arizona, searching for some kind of medicine or palliative. He spent 2 months there, attempting to relax and recover. The hot springs were a frequent choice for relief.

When he returned to his southern California home, he was at least able to get back to work at his multi-billion dollar company.

The desire to travel was easily sublimated as he lost himself in the new weapons requested by the Army. The briefing he and Obie had received had hinted at some kind of feral monster. He'd laughed at the time, but oddly, his dreams had taken on a particular green and angry flavor. He dismissed it as related to his illness and ignored it like the rest.

 

Both men were unaware of how things would change, in just over a year's time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traveling for our duo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Do not own, just playing in the sandbox.
> 
> Nothing in particular to warn about, other than I haven't really beta-ed this. I rewrote it from the original chapter, because it had too much 'crap' in it that I decided I didn't want, so here, you get a shorter, more plot dense chapter, and I get to chapter 3 that much faster.
> 
> If a sentence somewhere doesn't make sense, feel free to let me know!
> 
> AN: As I mentioned in chapter 4, I've made some geographical corrections, and maybe some spelling and grammatical ones as well. Nothing else major should have changed. Enjoy!

Tony wanted to go back to Arizona. He'd felt better there.

But he soldiered on, creating new designs to satisfy his greedy board, and Obadiah Stane. Holdovers from his father's tenure, the old bastards had such strong hooks in the company, Tony would never be rid of them until they died. And with his luck, they secretly used the Super Soldier Serum as aperitifs every night.

He arrived at Obadiah's office, only to groan when he discovered the meeting he'd tried to avoid was in full swing. Swearing under his breath, he pushed open the door, trying not to project the 'misbehaving child' attitude too much.

“Obie, I'm going on vacation,” Tony said, interrupting the flow of the meeting without a single care.

“Ah, there you are,” Stane drawled from behind the monster desk that squatted in his office, “Nice of you to join us Tony.” The monstrosity was supposed to intimidate, but Tony figured it only worked on interns.

“Yeah, whatever. Look, I'm leaving whether you care or not,” Tony was trying not to get angry. Stane had a way of getting under his skin in very short order.

Stane looked at the R&D team seated in front of him, the four men trying not to catch either man's attention. “Beat it,” he growled, pointing at the door Tony was standing in.

The four scrambled to obey, no one wanted to get in the middle of yet another territorial dispute between the two heads of the company.

Tony took a moment to stop one of the developers, giving him the flash drive he'd had in his pocket, that was the reason for the meeting in the first place. At least they'd be able to get something done, instead of having wasted their day waiting on him.

“Well, seeing as how you are holding the company over a barrel, Anthony, I don't see how I can stop you. Take that assistant with you, though, all right? She's going to help you coordinate long distance,” Stane said tonelessly. Things had gotten harder since Tony had taken ill. It was worse since none of the professionals they'd hired could figure out what was wrong, and Tony got well enough to function again. It looked as though Tony was having a relapse, and Stane was contemplating changing his plans again.

“I'll contact you when I get where I'm going,” Tony said, getting ready to turn back out of the office.

“Where are you heading this time?” Stane asked, rubbing his forehead to try and alleviate the headache that was growing, now that Tony wouldn't be so easily on hand again.

“South America somewhere. Maybe Belize, or Costa Rica. I'll decide when I leave,” Tony said, waving a hand in dismissal. He really didn't want to have to give up all the details, when he barely knew them himself. “I'll keep working on the latest Army request, those “Hulkbusters” or whatever Ross called them,” Tony offered.

“Fine, Anthony. Call in once in awhile, hm?” Stane requested, though Tony knew it was more an order.

Tony nodded, and left Stane alone. When the door clicked shut, Stane turned to his computer, and entered a password to a separate server, opening up several private files. He spent the rest of his day pouring over those files, working out in his head the best way to get the last Stark out of Stark Industries.

 

Deep in the jungle of Belize, Bruce attempted to gather enough food to last him a few days as he followed the river in search of work. It had taken him a month to adjust to the climate, and unfiltered water, but only 2 weeks gain a handle on at least 4 of the native dialects. He had less grasp of Portuguese, only because he tended to avoid the larger cities where it was more necessary.

Bruce wanted to reach the coast, and maybe find a ship heading overseas to Africa or Asia. He thought maybe he'd catch a break on the Army's persistence if he was that much further away from America.

The twisted twine net he'd made bulged with fruit and root vegetables. He'd already gone through the meager store of dried meat, and considered his hunting skills subpar yet to keep him steadily supplied with animal proteins. He also disliked wasting so much of the process. He just couldn't afford to stay in one place long enough. His control wasn't that good, yet.

 

He wandered the jungle path, grateful for whatever he'd become that kept predators away from him. His thoughts were circular, how to control the beast, and how to stay ahead of Ross and his squads of hunters.

 

It was several more hours of semi-aimless wandering before Bruce started seeing early signs of a small town. He thought he could trade manual labor for meat, and instead of skirting the town, he wandered directly inside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still playing!
> 
> AN: As mentioned previously, and in chapter 4, I've made some geographical corrections, as well as spelling, and grammar. Also, as in most stories, taken liberties as needed when one doesn't live where the story takes place! Nothing else should be different.

“Tony?” Virginia “Pepper” Potts knocked on her boss's door, hoping he was awake. They had agreed on breakfast meetings whenever Pepper had something new come down from the company.

Today, Obadiah had requested an update on the work Tony had brought with him.

The door eventually opened, a drowsy, sleep rumpled Tony Stark standing just inside the door's arc. “New crap from Stane?” he grumbled, rubbing his gritty eyes.

Pepper studiously avoided looking anywhere but at Tony's face. At least this morning, he was wearing boxers. She'd managed to convince him to stop startling the hotel staff with his proclivity for sleeping nude, and then answering his door without at least grabbing a robe.

“Yes Mr. Stark,” Pepper said, expectantly. She drummed her fingers along the edges of her tablet, waiting for him to invite her inside.

Tony yawned, and pulled the door wider to let her in. He took in her slim fit jeans, billowy white top, and sensible Jimmy Choos as she passed him to go to the desk that he had moved to the center of the suite's formal room.

“Did you want to call for breakfast?” she asked, as she opened the tablet and set it on the desktop.

“I did as soon as I got up, so it should be here soon. Let me get pants on, hm?” he disappeared into the bedroom for a few seconds and came out wearing thread bare black sweats that sat low on his hips and exposed the top of his boxers. Pepper resolutely continued to not stare as she opened her email and got ready to give Tony the daily report.

“Plenty of coffee, right?” Pepper teased as her boss settled in an armchair by the coffee table.

“Of course. And that earthy crunchy stuff you like,” he replied.

She smiled. Her preferences weren't hard, but Tony's easy tendency towards distraction had her despairing he'd remember anything about her aside from the near disaster that gave her her nickname.

“Thank you Tony. Now, I have an email from R&D regarding the prototype net gun for the Hulkbuster.”

And they got to work. Breakfast was the only real break they took as they waded through the small mountain of Stark Industries work.

Pepper's email chimed near the end, and she quickly tabbed it open. “Oh, here's news from Mr. Stane,” she said, calling Tony's attention away from his own tablet.

She continued, “He's requesting that you call, as the Jericho is ready for shipment, and he's arranged a live fire demonstration in Afghanistan* for the Army and Marines.”

“Is it? Huh, thought that was still in manufacturing. Answer him, and say I'll call before dinner. I've got something else to do today, if we're done Ms. Potts?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark, we're done.” She finished the last notes and turned off her tablet. “Did you need any assistance with your project today?”

Both knew he had no immediate reason to continue working, and that Tony would really be playing tourist. She had maybe 30 minutes more of work before she was free for the day.

“Nah, go do whatever you want. I'll see you for dinner, 7pm.”

“All right. Remember to take your phone!” she admonished. He had the grace to blush in embarrassment. He'd forgotten the device on several excursions already, and Pepper had set the town's police to search for him, only to discover he'd been a beach bum all three times.

“Yes dear. Now get. I know you want to burn off more of that bonus I promised for accompanying me down here.”

Pepper's eyes lit up at the prospect as she wondered if she could complete her remaining work any faster. While not having any designer stores, the town boasted an excellent marketplace that Pepper had visited once already.

In the month and a half they'd been in Belize, Tony had treated her to a week in Rio, and to an eco tour out of Costa Rica that they'd both enjoyed. They were closer friends for it, but while Pepper harbored a crush on Tony, she knew he didn't return the feelings. He also hadn't gone out to enjoy a lot of the night life of Rio, Belmopan, or Cancun.

Thus dismissed, Pepper left Tony alone and went back to her room to finish the round of emails and calls before she could head out on her own.

 

Tony went for a shower to clear his head before dressing in tattered jeans, and an old band t-shirt. He pulled on hiking boots, lacing them tight, and tugging the cuffs to his jeans down in place. As he left the hotel room, pocketing his wallet, and phone with one hand, he pushed the breakfast trolley into the hall with the other. Before the door shut, he patted his pockets once more, double checking for his phone. Confirming the presence of both items, he headed to the elevators to leave the hotel.

 

In the market, he wandered the food stalls, fishing out local coins to give to whomever was serving something interesting looking. He tried a variety of local delicacies, the faces he made over the spiciness or just plain oddness making many of the vendors laugh.

As he moved through the crowded market, a couple of kids crashed into him, nearly toppling him over.

“Whoa! Be careful!” he said, stumbling a bit to right himself. The boys barely got out an apology each before they were back on their feet and running off. He watched them dart around a corner and shook his head. Tony turned to go back to his aimlessness, and got maybe ten feet further down the packed dirt road before someone called out behind him.

“Señor!” The voice was masculine, tenor if Tony was any judge. He turned back in the direction of the shout and beheld a man, close to his age, bronze skin, brown eyes and dark, nearly black hair cropped in the style of the natives. That man wore knee length, homespun cotton shorts, and a baggy cotton shirt that was cut in the front to reveal a strong chest covered in thick, dark hair. The man's feet were bare, as he strode closer. In one hand, he carried a twisted rope net bulging with a variety of fruits and vegetables. 

Tony noticed he also held a familiar looking wallet. Eyes widening in surprise, eyebrows raised up nearly to his hairline, he quickly patted the pocket where his was supposed to be. The pocket was empty.

“Señor, your wallet. Those boys,” the man trailed off, clicking his tongue in worry. He proffered the wallet with a shy smile. His English was barely accented as he spoke.

“Yeah, kids these days,” Tony answered softly, distracted. This man was intriguing, and that baffled Tony. He usually wasn't drawn to people. All his relationships, save Pepper, Obie, and Rhodey, were superficial. He honestly preferred the company of his AI and few robots. He just didn't give a damn for people, couldn't care less about their daily lives or their histories. But something about this man, called to him, like the sirens of myth. He wanted to know more, get closer to this fascinating mystery before him.

 

Bruce stood a few feet from the American, taking in the impeccable grooming, the lazy, but trained slouch, and expensive, well worn clothing. The beast inside rumbled, picking up on the anxiety starting to course through Bruce at the thought that this man could be an undercover military man. But looking again, especially at the stranger's head, Bruce concluded that he wasn't military. The hair was too long. He offered the man's wallet back, and stepped closer.

Their hands met, fingers automatically folding over the soft, kidskin leather of the billfold, leaving their fingertips to touch the insides of their wrists. There was some kind of electrical zap that arced through their fingers, and across nerves.

It jangled across Bruce and the monster, setting their insides aflame. He barely held back a gasp at the intense heat of the moment, and had to shake himself loose of the light entanglement with this suddenly overly familiar person. With barely a touch, and hardly any words spoken between them, Bruce felt like this stranger had invaded his mind, and took over his heart.

Tony allowed the other man closer, noting that he wasn't truly a native, though he couldn't place where the man might hail from. He reached out to take the wallet back, noting absently that their fingers touched the soft skin of the inner wrists, folding together like a handshake, the wallet pressed between and forgotten in that electrifying moment.

The arc of energy buzzed up his arm, straight to his heart. That had never happened before, outside of the occasional electric shock from haphazard wiring, Tony realized, shaking his head. He saw the other man's eyes widen, increasing the small pattern of crow's feet at the corners of the orbs, before he let go of Tony's hand and the wallet, nearly stumbling backwards trying to escape. Tony's own hand tightened to keep hold of the black billfold.

“Sorry, sorry,” the other man spoke perfect English, both hands held chest high, palms out and fingers spread in a warding gesture as he backed off.

“Hey, it's okay man, no harm done!” Tony tried to reassure the stranger. “Can I buy you lunch, as a thank you?”

“No, gracias.” The man shook his head, still backing away.

A young couple took advantage of the clear space, the woman of the pair speaking loudly in one of the native tongues as she ducked between the separating men. Her boyfriend followed as close as he dared, while not holding her hand, responding back nearly as loudly.

The Samaritan took advantage of the distraction, spun on his heel and jogged away, not looking back. Tony could only stare after him, somehow, and very confusingly, deeply disappointed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, do not own anything related to Marvel's characters. 
> 
> AN: No specific warnings for this chapter. However: This chapter comes to you raw and unedited. To that end, please note that anything that looks very off, or completely weird, feel free to leave me a review or PM about. Also note that politeness goes so very much further than anything else. My levels of chronic pain have meant that while I'm writing, I haven't got the tolerance for sitting long enough right now to edit. And 3 months is plenty long enough to leave people waiting to see what happened, hm? Onward.

Confused, Tony watched the slimly built man dodge other shoppers and disappear from view. Shaking his head at the vagaries of others, he turned to be about his own way, when something soft brushed his hand.

Trying not to startle too much, he looked and saw a large, green and gray feather drifting slowly to the ground.

“Well hello, where did you come from?” he wondered aloud, stooping to catch it. He hadn't noticed any birds in the area he was in, but it wasn't impossible for one to have flown by without notice in the busy marketplace.

Touching the feather was just as electric as the handshake he'd shared with the stranger. Oddly warm, and deeply comforting as the embrace of a loved one was the sensation that enveloped him. Sliding his wallet into his front pocket, Tony took to gently rubbing his fingers over the feathers as he continued to walk through the marketplace, all previous thoughts and ideas shoved aside for this new sensation.

 

Bruce kept walking, not stopping until he was back at the shed row house he'd found refuge in. Making his way to the corner of the main room he'd claimed as his, he sank to his knees and attempted to meditate.

The beast man within was very restless, and Bruce could not afford to lose control. It took close to an hour to come back to baseline, and Bruce was by then, exhausted.

He reached for the net of vegetables and fruit, and went into the tiny alcove that served as a kitchen to get started on an evening meal. He ignored the frisson that danced across his nerves as best he could, thinking it was just the beast testing his control again. 

Dinner prepared, and left warming for the family of the house, Bruce too his few possessions and headed for the river for a bath, and some quiet reflection.

 

When Tony returned to his hotel room, he found a note from Pepper, reminding him to call and speak with Stane about the impending trip to the Middle East. He delayed long enough to shower and eat a quick snack to boost flagging energy levels before he reached for his cell.

The feather currently rested next to his tablet, side by side with the stylus he preferred for his AutoCAD renderings.

“JARVIS, call Obie,” he requested of his AI.

“Dialing, sir.” Installing his own software on the smart phone hadn't been easy, but had taught Tony what he needed to know about the devices to start his own line. Not quite profitable yet, as the company still had to contract time on the fiber optic networks, and he wasn't sure about satellite broadcasting.

“Good evening, Anthony,” Obadiah's smoke stained voice echoed from the speaker.

“Hi Obie, what's shaking?” Tony said, insouciant.

Stane sighed, “Not tonight, Anthony. We need to talk about the Jericho presentation.”

“All right,” Tony said, subsiding a little sulkily. While he discussed these plans with Stane, his hand reached out for the feather and picked it up to caress the barbs. The action helped him concentrate, with the odd energy soothing his normal twitchiness when discussing anything with Stane.

Normally, he chafed under Obie's care, but handling that feather made him think of the man in the market, and he calmed right down. Part of his considerable genius worked at the mystery while he handled his conversation with Stane.

They discusses the proposed presentation, and Obie promised to send the updated schematics so that Tony could have them to look over.

“When do I need to be there?” Tony asked at last, realizing that Pepper would be along soon for dinner.

“Two days. And Anthony, no more than four, all right? I don't want to spend an evening soothing the ruffled feathers of Generals angry at SI for not appearing when promised.”

“Okay, fine!” Tony said with a huff of irritation.

They bid each other farewell, and Tony hung up just as a knock sounded on the door to his room. He stood and stretched before going to open it. Pepper waited on the other side.

“Did you talk with Mr. Stane?” she asked as he pulled the slab of wood open. She'd changed when she'd come back from her adventure, and now wore a light summer dress decorated with small pink flowers, and flat sandals adorning her feet. Her strawberry blond hair was pinned up, except for a pair of fat curls that dangled just in front of her ears.

“Well, don't you look fetching this evening?” Tony asked rhetorically, giving her a once over. “And yes, just finished. We're supposed to be in Qalat in two days.” He grinned a little devilishly, “But we'll be there in three.”

Pepper rolled her eyes as he opened the door wider for her to step in.

 

Days later, the Stark executive jet arrived in Afghanistan. Tony and Pepper happy to be out of the wet, humid conditions of South America. It was cooler, being winter in the northern hemisphere, so they were grateful that there were appropriate clothes on hand when they checked into their hotel.

Tony was experiencing extreme tiredness again, whatever benefit he'd gotten while in Belize clearly gone within hours of arriving in Afghanistan. But the demonstration had to move forward, the contracts were too important. The morning meeting went well, the technicians who'd accompanied the rocket handled the minutiae of explaining its capabilities to the officers present. Pepper took care of paperwork and wrangling the assistants while Tony acted the nuisance, quizzing the techs and haranguing the military members.

The group went to the proving ground to test the missile system the next day. Tony took over the presentation, sliding into the role of brash industrialist slash circus ring leader while they waited for the set up to be completed.

After the demonstration, Tony called Pepper, who had stayed behind, to let her know how it had gone. She advised he call Stane with the same info.

 

A few days after the market incident, Bruce felt an itch to move on. He hadn't had an incident since that close call, but perhaps 3 months was long enough to stay in one place. It wouldn't do to become complacent.

It took a few days to reach a coastal town where he might get a slot on a boat headed to Africa. He didn't have much to offer a crew, except above average cooking skills and fair to middling medical skills.

In halting Portuguese, he spoke with a smoking dock worker, attempting to get the lay of the land at the harbor. Something about the dark skinned man bothered Bruce. He carefully watched the man as he smoked the cheap, unfiltered cigarillo.

Somehow, his sight grew sharper, and he glanced at a cargo container squatting near the fence.

One blink, he could see normally, the rusted steel box with white painted alpha numerics understandable to a few.

Another blink, and he saw through the side of the container to the boxed inside that told him there were stereos there.

Another blink, and Bruce wrenched his gaze from the container, hazel eyes piercing and pining the dock worker in place.

The dock man drew one more deep drag from the cigarillo as Bruce's eyes focused on him. He choked on the smoke and was reduced to hacking coughs, bent almost double.

Bruce had seen enough though. The man's lungs were almost completely riddled with disease. Without much conscious thought, he reached a hand forward, crossing the space between them with a shuffled footstep. Laying the hand flat on the man's sternum, he became cognizant of a soft pulse of energy, leaving his own body and entering the dock worker's.

It slowly increased, becoming visible, a pale blue-green.

After what felt like hours, but was only minutes, the energy pulsing came to a stop, and Bruce fell to his knees, exhausted. 

The light show had attracted attention, but luckily no interference. As Bruce slumped forward, panting, one brave soul darted forward, bearing a bottle of tepid water. This action broke the tableau and the whispering started up.

The now healed dock worker straightened, taking deep breaths he previously hadn't been able to. He looked at the still smoldering cigarillo in his fingers before flicking it away angrily. His gaze fell on the bent head before him. Compassionately, he leaned over, and grasped the man by the upper arms, casually lifting him to his feet. In Garifuna, he said, “Come, I will take you to the priest. He will help you.”

The village took to calling Bruce Angel for the next day, the gray and green wings had appeared, and nothing he could do would make them disappear again. The parish priest shrugged and went back to triaging the walking wounded that came to see the Angel of God.

 

It was another month before Bruce left. But he had gathered the funds to book a flight to Oman. He had felt pulled to the east, and his dreams were full of heat, sand, fear, and blood. He didn't know what they meant, but kept a journal of careful notations all the same.

The priest had let him put together a tiny lab in the basement of the church, where he was able to work on the experiments he'd had in mind for the feathers. 

Bruce managed to work out that he had some kind of healing ability, that had strengthened over the month with the priest. Now, working on a person with a life threatening illness no longer exhausted him, but did make him tired until he was able to replace certain electrolytes and proteins. He'd had to change his diet again, going back to a more omnivorous lifestyle compared to the almost vegan one he'd assumed while on the run from the American military.

The headmen of the village helped him arrange for citizenship and procured him paperwork that proved his identity. He kept his first name, but accepted a new middle and last name, Angeles Novelo. The people hadn't wanted him to leave, but after explaining the issue, the towns' leaders and the priest he stayed with were in agreement, if he stayed too long, the Army would find him eventually.

Bruce received a tearful, but happy send off from the people one fine afternoon, as the cab he requested arrived at the church. The priest had helped him figure out how to buckle the wings down under his clothes, making his back look misshapen. Not what he'd prefer, but better that, than the chance that he'd be found even quicker because of the oddity of wings.

The cab driver easily took him to the airport in Belmopan, where he only had to wait a little while before his flight boarded for Oman. Once there in the desert country, Bruce would figure out what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have updated the first three chapters of this story to reflect some corrections I have made to geography. Unfortunately, I cannot deal with it all in one go right now, see above. I will do my best to get it done in a timely fashion, though if the story springs to the top of the listings, you know why.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finally makes it to Afghanistan. Tony is not in good shape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **SEE ALL NOTES ON A TRIGGERING SCENE OF CHILD WELFARE. (the not good kind)**
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, still can't win the lottery. Sadness.  
> Warnings: Scenes of torture, but not graphic (goes back to Iron Man), one scene of child abduction, and child endangerment(significant injury, but immediate healing), author liberties with locations, and personal Muslim names. No insult is intended, and I welcome input on the proper forms of address for the characters in question. See bottom for specific info before you read this one!

Bruce got the airport, grateful the damned wings had disappeared well before he got to the security screening area. The jacket, two times larger than he normally wore, was happily removed and given to an old woman, begging just beside the main doors to the airport's ticketing area*. She gave him a toothless grin and a blessing in her native tongue.

Bruce continued inside, and was able to easily purchase a ticket on the next available flight that would get him where he wanted to go. He had enough funds for lunch, ordering a simple bowl of soup and a sandwich. He took it out onto a patio overlooking the runways on one side, and the ocean on the other*, enjoying the solitude. Bruce had a chance to reflect on the last month.

He thought about his new healing ability, and how it connected to the mystery wings he'd been saddled with shortly after the accident. Working at the church, Bruce had healed roughly half the village, many of them from fatal diseases, or children with insect or spider bites. It had taken only a few days to find a sense of equilibrium in using this new power. He was able to control the drain associated with use of the healing talent, and no longer ended up completely exhausted as he did on that shipping dock. 

_There was one day, midway through the month, that Bruce had finished a round of the makeshift ward located in the basement, and decided it was lunch time. He headed to the stairs to go up to the rectory and make some food. As he climbed, he suddenly had difficulty breathing, and Bruce could tell his heart was pounding. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, making him clutch the handrail, gasping for breath. He couldn't call for help, the words just stuck in his throat, fighting with the air he tried to draw into his lungs. Bruce collapsed, tumbling back down the stairs, slipping unconscious at the bottom stair well._

_One of the nuns found him, and screamed. The sound summoned the priest and several day workers to the ward. Together, they managed to get Bruce up out of the stairwell, and back to his room. They were unable to rouse him, and the priest advised they let him be until he woke, or 48 hours passed. Then they would call for medical help. Bruce slept the rest of the day and into the next. When he tried to rise, he discovered a continuing weakness, however he was determined to get back on his feet._

_Leaving his room, he was surprised to find a prayer circle just outside his door, comprised of villagers of all the faiths endemic to the area. The circle of natives cried out in happy surprise to see their Angel of God* back on his feet, apparently healed from his trials by their prayers._

_Each person crowded around Bruce, forcing him out into the hall, touching some part of him, begging for blessings. By the time he got free, each of them had received at least two blessings, and perhaps strangest to him, a tiny touch of 'something' going out to whomever he addressed._

_Bruce had to find the head priest, and went wondering through the church to locate him. Bruce was often stopped by someone, asking for a blessing, or giving thanks for healing them, or a relative._

_When Bruce found the priest, the man was working on the next sermon. Bruce asked about his collapse. The priest told him what he knew, and that the caregiver assigned to watch over him had only seen the great wings, and that they had glowed. There had been nothing else of note about the incident, other than no one being able to rouse him, and that alone concerned him._

_Later, Bruce went down to the basement and the tiny lab that he and a few villagers had managed to cobble together. He took a recently boiled syringe, and drew a sample of blood to check for any abnormalities. Bruce recalled being hungry, but not so much else that would cause a 36 hour nap._

_The overall weakness remained for a week before disappearing overnight in a warm, oddly tingling way. Bruce had run even more experiments then, and on his feathers, but found nothing. The feathers tested as normal, and 99.9% matched to his DNA, which also remained the same from the Green Beast. He abandoned the testing, destroying the samples, angry and frustrated, vowing to try again if he ever got access to a proper lab._

Bruce's introspection was interrupted when his flight's boarding announcement was made over the intercom. He took advantage of the long flight to Africa, and slept. It took three layovers from there to reach Moscat, Oman.

Once he'd arrived, Bruce quickly left the airport to the nearest taxi stand, hoping to find another method of transportation across the Gulf. The taxi took him to the wharfs and left him outside the Wharfmaster's office. One of the assistants spoke French, and talked with Bruce about his options. They were slim. There were apparently no direct boats to Oman.

Bruce had a feeling he needed to get across the Gulf as soon as he could. However, even hiring a boat was out of the question. And the dock workers refused to tell him more than 'embargo'.

He took himself away from the docks and headed along the coast, hoping for inspiration. He hadn't been walking long, when a sudden, overwhelming sense of horror and fear swallowed him whole, and spit back out the Green Beast.

 

 

In a dark cave system high in the mountains of Afghanistan, Tony Stark tried to fight against his captors.

Tried, and failed.

Two large, gun wielding men, dressed in loose caftans and pants the color of the desert sand, and wearing tightly wrapped turbans, dragged Tony's still healing body towards the front of the caves, where an older man waited, a dark scowl on his bearded face. Tony's co-captive followed sedately behind, his face blank and resigned.

This man was Ho Yinsen, scientist and doctor, who had patched Tony back together, and built the electromagnet now housed between Tony's lungs. He had been a captive for only a little longer than tony, and speculated there was a reason. Yinsen could only pray that Stark caught on quickly to what was going on.

Tony was forced to carry an unwieldy, heavy truck battery around as a power source, Yinsen's options being severely limited at the time he installed the electromagnet.

It had only taken two days for Tony to stabilize from the surgery and come out of the coma. Yinsen had done all he could to insure his survival and limit the chances for infection. Though that remained a strong possibility, simply due to to living in the caves.

Frankly, he'd been surprised at the quick turn around. And ultimately grateful.

The ring leader barked a string of Kurdish* at the two guards, Tony suspended limply between them. They dragged him over to a large, open barrel brimming with ice cold water. The leader looked at Tony, then at Yinsen, and growled a few sentences in Pashto. Yinsen translated for Tony's benefit.

"You are to build the Jericho. Yinsen has fixed your injuries, and you are on your feet. If you do not begin the build," and Yinsen stopped talking as Tony was subjected to an object lesson in what would happen if he didn't comply.*

When he was given a chance to splutter out an answer, both he and Yinsen were dragged back to their holding 'cell' and given food. They quietly discussed the requirements for materials, and Yinsen spoke with their captors to get those needs filled. Yinsen also reiterated the need for proper medical equipment, as he needed to make sure Tony stayed healthy enough to build the weapon system.

 

A few days after landing in Moscat, Bruce came back to himself to find he was just outside a village in a mountainous, desert area. A few children out playing found him wandering, mostly naked and sunburnt, around the outskirts and brought him back to their headman.

As he spent time around the village walls, Bruce had discovered a new power, sensing a strange darkness about the village, which set him to wondering how to go about investigating both the sensation, and how he knew.

The children took him to the headman of the village, where he discovered a tiny bit of luck. The man knew French, thus being able to talk with the newcomer, and help him figure out what his next move might be.

Bruce was shown to a small hut he was told they gave to visitors, and given a chance to wash, and don donated clothing, and then taken back to the headman's own house, where they talked over cheese, dates, and tea.

Bruce introduced himself, and stated he wasn't sure how he'd come to the village, or indeed, where the village was. The headman, Barbrak Kamal* expressed surprise, but informed Bruce as to where they were. He asked if Bruce knew anything about the Green Beast, spotted several dozen miles away in the last two days, and the small flinch was enough of an answer.

Barbrak Kamal asked Bruce about the outside world next, and they talked of nothing of merit until dinner.

Bruce was invited to spend time in the village, once he'd spoken of having the ability to care for the sick and injured. He didn't directly mention the healing power, feeling he needed to keep that as close to under wraps as possible.

After dinner, Barbrak and Bruce walked through the village, quietly talking. Bruce asked if there was a holy man in the village. While Barbrak knew Bruce was not Muslim, he could only detect a sincere desire for conversation in the request. Perhaps, he thought, the stranger just needed questions answered. Barbrak promised an introduction the next day.

At breakfast, Bruce was introduced to Mullah Yusri Abdur-Rahim*, the man in charge of the village's temple, and four others in the area. Mullah Yusri spoke passable English, and they had several common interests. It helped Bruce learn the language that much quicker, with their daily talks.

After a week, Bruce asked about the possibility of angels on Earth. Mullah Yusri thought about it, sipping hot tea as they sat on comfortable cushions next to an unlit coal stove.

The priest finally replied, “The Prophet, peace be unto him, put forth in the Qur'an that angels are among us, but outside of our perception. They are not like Judaic or Christian angels, even though we describe them the same. Why do you ask, my son?”

Bruce took a moment to consider telling someone everything, not just about the healing power, but the accident, wings and all. Most of his incidents had been during times of stress, or self-discovery. He took a couple of deep breaths, and explained. The Mullah's expression changed very little, until Bruce stood, and willed the green and gray wings into being.

There was nothing painful about their emergence, just a gradual unfurling until the outstretched tips brushed the mosaic decorated walls of the room.

“May I?” Mullah Yusri queried, placing his cup on the low mahogany table between them. He stood, waiting for Bruce's permission before going to inspect the feathered appendages. “Quite outstanding, Mr. Banner,” Mullah Yusri murmured as he ducked under the left wing to inspect the back.

Bruce hadn't taken off his shirt, and the cleric saw that the fabric remained untorn. “Bruce please, Mullah Yusri,” he insisted when the other man came back around to face Bruce.

“Can you fly?” the Mullah inquired.

“A little,” Bruce admitted. “Haven't had time or the opportunity. Hard to find either when the healing demands precedence.”

“Ah yes, it would draw most of your attention,” Mullah Yusri contemplated out loud. “I do not believe you are angelic, though the analogy compares favorably. Many would use it, as it is the easiest designator to something they've never encountered before. It is a fine gift, Bruce. Allah is wise and merciful,” he said, resuming his seat.

Bruce folded the wings flat to his back and sat also. The tips dragged against the floor, but he did not feel much discomfort from their positioning. Their conversation moved onto how safe Bruce might be, staying in the village long term.

Bruce brought up the question of the Taliban, but the Mullah countered with the presence of a different group.

"Worse," the old man shifted on his cushion, leaning forward to pour more tea. "They call themselves the Ten Rings, and don't care who's in the way. Shepherds bring word that they are camped not twenty-four kilometers from here, in the mountains. And they are holding prisoners."

“Well, I'm not here to tangle with that mess, I think,” Bruce frowned. This problem bothered him, but he wasn't sure it was what drew him to the area, even though he'd been in his other form. “I am a simple doctor, and can help the sick and injured. Hopefully that means staying under their notice.”

"You will stay here, with us, and whomever needs your skills can come to you," the old man decreed. Bruce accepted, knowing he needed some time to blend in. That talent had come to him early. It had made it really easy to stay in the background during college, and through the majority of the military contract until he'd had results.

However, a week later, his fortune changed for the worse. A group of bandits made a raid on the village, stealing whatever they thought they could get away with, including girls, animals, and food.

 

 ****START OF TRIGGERING CONTENT****  
As they shot up the village, screaming their demands, people ran screaming, either away from the raiders, or towards them in defense of what was theirs.

One young girl who was playing with her brothers in the village square, was caught in the crossfire and shot several times. Her screams brought Bruce out of hiding. He ran out of a walled garden, to scoop the child up into his arms, bearing her to an empty hut where he might have a chance to look at her wounds, maybe heal her if she wasn't gone already. He was unfortunately followed by a gunman who crossed the distance from the center of the village. The bandit brandished his gun as he broke over the threshold, tearing down the cloth that covered the doorway.

The gunman, was just in time to see Bruce's healing powers at work.

Bruce knelt on the packed dirt floor, laying the 7 year old out in front of him. The girl wheezed and cried as she bled out. He gently reassured her, knowing just enough Balochi to be believed. He held his hands scant millimeters from her torso, where 3 bullet wounds poured crimson blood. Bruce's hands glowed with a blue white light, that climbed up his arms, grabbing the gunman's attention. In minutes, three bent and disfigured bullets emerged from the girl's body, and dropped to the ground with dull plinks. As each bullet hole scabbed over, the gunman's expression changed from curious wonder to incredulity, eyes getting wider with every passing second. The girl passed out from the pain caused by the reemerging bullets.

When Bruce finally sat back on his heels, and swiped at his sweaty brow, he was actually grateful that this talent didn't always require the laying on of hands. The gunman was finally able to shake off the awe and thrust the muzzle of his gun into the side of Bruce's neck.

He noticed the warmth of the metal, from use, and his heart stuttered in his chest. The Green of his mind turned over, prodding to see if it was time to take control. It hated guns. Bruce ruthlessly boxed the ever present Other back into its cage, all while trying to ascertain how much trouble he was in.

Bruce turned his head slowly, his hands dropping open over the girl's body in an attempt to shield her from more harm. With the rudimentary bits of language he'd managed to  pick up, Bruce said several variations of "Don't hurt her” in all the languages he currently knew.

The man on the other end of the Kalashnikov shouted, drawing the attention of the other raiders. The ringleader of this particular group stormed into the hut, demanding answers. The gunmen engaged in some conversation, in a language Bruce hadn't heard yet. The little girl began to come to, and his focus shifted to her.

"Be still," he commanded, again speaking Balochi, making her freeze. The girl's eyes were huge, pupils dilated with fear. She shook minutely, high on adrenaline.

For another few minutes, the two raiders discussed or argued about what, Bruce couldn't tell. Eventually, the leader moved forward, and grabbed the girl by the hair, hauling her to her feet. She screamed in pain and fear, but went to the man. Bruce turned, leaning into his toes to get up if the terrorist made to kill the girl. The gunman shoved the Kalashnikov at Bruce again, and garbled in heavily accented English, "You come now, girl come. Take you to Raza."

Bruce put his hands in the air and nodded equably. If it got the village left alone, he figured to offer to go out and start a chain dance of the Macarena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** About the child endangerment/injury: The whole end of the chapter involves a one-sided gun fight in the village Bruce ends up in. One child, a young girl, is badly injured, and Bruce races to the rescue, and uses his new talent to heal her. One of the gunmen sees this, and ends up forcing Bruce to go back with the raiders to their camp, taking the girl along as insurance. I will mark where this happens so you can skip what could be graphic and/or triggering content. You don't miss anything by skipping it, even though that's the end scene of the chapter. In the next chapter, she'll be held on Bruce's continued good behavior, but nothing else should happen to her.
> 
> Asterisks: 1 & 2 – Author's liberties with a location; 3 – Angel of God: what the natives have called Bruce, based on his wings; 4 – Kurdish is one of many available languages in this area; 5 – This goes back to the torture Tony suffered in Iron Man; 6 – names generated from http://tekeli.li/onomastikon/Middle-East/East/Afghanistan.html (for Barbrak Kamal), and http://tekeli.li/onomastikon/Middle-East/Arab/Male.html (for Yusri Abdur-Rahim). I have decided to use American English styling in how I use the name Barbrak Kamal. I do not know if it is normally permissible to write such a name out in a familiar way, and would appreciate correction on the form of address. 7 – the title of Mullah is given to some Islamic clergy, especially those educated in theology and sacred law (lslamic), and in Afghanistan, also given to local Islamic clerics or mosque leaders. In using the cleric's name, I will use “Mullah Yusri” as it sounds/looks similar to a Christian saying/writing “Reverend Smith”. If this is in error, please leave a comment with the correct form of address! Absolutely no intent to discriminate or belittle is meant here.
> 
> HIATUS MESSAGE: 3/1/16 I am on hiatus for the foreseeable future to deal with personal stuff. Please don't leave comments asking for updates, they negatively impact my depression recovery. Thank you.


End file.
